


The Power of Imagination

by rhodrymavelyne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28411491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhodrymavelyne/pseuds/rhodrymavelyne
Summary: Will dreams and visualizes having a power that’s only in his head or is it? And does Hannibal sense it and smile at it?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 10





	The Power of Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during the third season while Hannibal is in Italy. I don’t own Hannibal but for over a year it has owned me.

In my dreams I climbed to the tops of the cliffs, above crashing waves, ignoring the howling wind. I screamed into the air, a message of defiance for one who could no longer hear me. 

“Do not seek to control me, Hannibal, for I am the uncontrollable force you’ve craved for so long, the pendulum capable of swinging back and erasing time itself. To control me is to negate your own wish.”

I awakened, breathless from shouting and at my own melodramatic arrogance. How utterly ridiculous. It had to be ridiculous. 

Did I really cry out those words to him? Did he hear me? Did I truly possess the power to match those words? 

Nonsense. I concentrated on that word, ignoring my own fear of the answer. It waited for me, breathing and pulsing within my brain, ready to be visualized, to become a reality. 

For a moment I saw where Hannibal was, dancing amidst a crowd of other men in tuxedos, ladies in evening gowns in their arms. Crystal chandeliers illuminated the waltz, reflecting light off bare skin, sweating, smiling faces. 

It was beautiful, yet fleeting, the vision. I wasn’t sure if it was real or not. What would it be like, to dance with the people in the vision? What would it be like to dance with him?

I concentrated on the image, what I recalled of it. Each man and woman shivered when I studied them, as if they’d been brushed by my attention, marked, and perhaps a little injured by it. From now on he or she would draw danger to themselves the way I did. 

It was simply my imagination again. I didn’t possess the power to hurt anyone there, just by looking at them. I certainly couldn’t mark them. They weren’t even real, the people I saw. 

Except for Hannibal. He stood with a glass of prosecco in his hand, eyes searching the crowd until he fixed his attention upon me. How bright and shining his dark eyes were, meeting mine, like a boy who’s fallen in love for the first time. 

I’d dismiss the look as imagination only I’ve seen it before when he’s looked at me. Just what does he see that everyone else doesn’t? Why is what’s terrible to everyone else, including myself, beautiful to him?

Perhaps you have to be a monster to appreciate the true me. Perhaps it’s because I myself am a monster. 

I’m not sure if I want to know if this is true or not.


End file.
